


Kinda Busy

by yeats



Category: Hip Hop RPF, Pop Music RPF
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-13
Updated: 2010-03-13
Packaged: 2017-11-29 22:04:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeats/pseuds/yeats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the "Telephone" universe.  Gaga and Honey B on the lam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kinda Busy

They didn't stop the car until they hit the border.

A hundred miles out, Gaga thought she saw a sign for the World's Largest Vat of Vaseline, but Honey B just kept her Ann Demeulemeester heel on the gas and the nails of her three littlest fingers digging into Gaga's thigh. Right there on the sweet spot, high enough to hurt real nice and hard enough to mark. 

No line at the checkpoint, just a single agent with a gun across his lap and a German Shepherd at his feet, drowsy in the mid-afternoon sun that rode in over their shoulders.

Gaga loaded her Glock. Honey B hitched up her Daisy Dukes.

This time, they took the dog with them. 

They named her the Bitch Queen and settled her in on the back seat of the Pussy Wagon, made a bed for her out of silk robes and shredded taffeta underskirts. Gaga spilled three drops of Nemiroff Lex vodka into her cupped palm, and the Bitch Queen drank it without blinking, her head regal and her eyes sharp.

"She reminds me of you," Honey B said.

"She reminds you of yourself," Gaga told her. 

Mexico stretched out ahead of them like a gunshot wound, all torn-up skin and bleeding guts with the white bone of the earth peeking out from beneath. Gaga pressed her face to the window, snapped her sunglasses up and watched the scenery, but B'd seen it all before. You did enough jobs, ran enough cons, and suddenly you were in Baja somewhere, counting your twenties on a motel bed and wearing your Burberry swimsuit to tan in the shell of a drained swimming pool.

Except Gaga didn't do motels. And Burberry was _so_ 2003.

They spent the night in a condo on the beach, abandoned in the housing crash half-finished. The Bitch Queen's nails clacked on the unpolished wood floors and Gaga tied Honey B to the king-sized bed with a roll of caution tape, kept her there for hours. The moon and stars cast picture shows across the walls and Gaga was everywhere, above B and below her and inside her, savage and a perfect lady. B couldn't keep her eyes open, couldn't keep her mouth shut, couldn't keep her body from shuddering as Gaga took, and took, and took.

The tape didn't leave bruises. Somehow, Honey B found herself disappointed, rubbed the point of her wrist just below the bone. 

"Look down," Gaga said, one hand spreading B's legs, and then she saw them -- the imprint of Gaga's teeth, weaving in a crazy rippling trail up the inside of her thigh.

"Your turn next," Honey B promised. "Tomorrow night, I'll get you."

"Yeah?"

"Girl, I'll wear my boots." 

Gaga shivered.

They slept until dawn, walked the Bitch Queen down to the shore and watched her go howling after seagulls. They curled together on the warming face of a rock and drank the last of the Nemiroff, cracked open a coconut with the butt of Honey B's knife and fed each other slivers of the soft white meat off the flat of the blade. 

"Are you happier here?" Honey B asked. She turned her head in, tasted her own lipstick in the hollow of Gaga's throat. 

"I thought we said no questions," Gaga said. Honey B felt Gaga's pulse rabbit under her teeth. 

"I thought we said no stealing lines from classic cinema."

Gaga snorted. "We're thieves, baby. That's what we do."

"Gypsies, tramps and thieves?" Honey B said, sliding her hand higher. 

"You got it."

Neither of them watched out the rearview mirror as the house burnt down behind them. The Bitch Queen sniffed the air, settled her head between her paws, and fell asleep.


End file.
